No
by nebulia
Summary: R just to be safe. I think it's one of the longest things I've ever written. Your typical MontparnassemeetsEponine stories. When have I ever been typical?


Disclaimer: Same as always. 

No

I could never tell anyone what happened the night I met him. Never. I knew he was in my father's gang, of course, if you could call that man my father. But he was alone, the day I met him on the streets. I was fifteen.

            He was the handsomest man I had ever seen. His black hair hung to his shoulders, it's smooth waves pulled back neatly with an equally black ribbon. His eyes were bright and merry, his lips were red. Late I found out why his eyes were always so bright, but at that point,  I had no idea how he managed to stay so handsome while living in that little run-down tenement on the other side of Saint Denis.  Even his clothes were stylish but threadbare and clean. 

            I had seen him at a distance before, but up close, he was beautiful. I was running, delivering one of those damned letters of my father's, when I ran into him.

            "Oh, I—I'm sorry."  I stuttered a bit, almost unsure what to say. He was the youngest of my father's minions—his name was Montparnasse. The men in my father's gang, they were usually violent. What would he do when he recognized me?

            But he laughed, and offered me a hand. "It's quite all right, cherie." He looked at me closely, then said, " You're Jondrette's daughter, aren't you?" 

            I nodded. "Yes, that's me."

            "Well, Mamselle Jondrette, would you care to go out for a bite to eat? I have some francs from a job today. How about if I treat you?"

            "But…." I faltered. He was kind, and handsome. No real man had ever noticed me. Only my father's friends had ever—done anything with me; he was paid, like a pimp, for my favors. My sister was, too, but less often. Between me and my sister, she had always been the favorite, and only when we needed money did she become a prostitute. 

            But that letter. Father would kill me if he found I didn't deliver it.

            Montparnasse looked concerned. "But what?"

            "The letter. For my father's friend. I was s'posed to deliver it tonight—"

            "I'll talk to your father. Don't worry."

            I grinned at him. "All right, Monsieur Montparnasse, I would be pleased to dine with you tonight." 

            That dinner was pleasant. Montparnasse let me eat all I wanted, and even ordered a huge platter of food for himself. He ordered a bottle of brandy, and some water, for the meal as well. So I drank some with him. I didn't like the flavor of brandy—it was too sweet and to horrid-tasting at the same time, but I liked how it burned down my throat, how cool the water felt going down as I drank a sip after every gulp of alcohol. Then he invited me back to his apartment. 

            At first I was wary. We went instead to a public park, where he and I sat on a bench and talked for hours. It was nearly midnight when I agreed to go back home with him. My mother and sister would already be asleep, and the portress would kill me for walking in so late. So I went. I enjoyed his conversation, even though his hand slid and stroked my inner thigh as we sat on the bench. I assumed it was just alcohol. All men did such things when drunk—at least all the men I knew did. And I didn't really mind—the brandy had loosened me up a little, too.  

            But that walk to his apartment sobered me. And I grew worried, especially as we neared his room, at the end if the hallway. He practically dragged me into it, and once the door was shut and locked, he turned to me and kissed me. 

            At first the kiss was gentle, but it lasted for only moments. Then it deepened, into something greater and his hands began to unfasten the back of my ragged dress. 

            I pushed away. "Montparnasse. No." 

            His lips traveled down my neck and onto my shoulder. I had slept with enough men to know what was going to happen next. I pushed away further. "Did you hear me? II don't want it./I No, 'Parnasse. No."

            He pulled his face up, the brandy on his breath making me nauseas. I fought the urge to gag and stared at his eyes. They were mocking and cruel. "I don't give a damn if you don't want it. You see, bI/b want it, and that's all that matters. You're a woman. I am a man. I am stronger than you, taller than you, and I have a knife. Man was created by God Himself to rule. You were created to obey." 

            I stared at him for a moment, slightly surprised at this lecture. In my moment of vulnerability,  he threw me on the bed, and began to unbutton his pants. "Calm down," he said. "This won't take very long."

            It had never hurt so much. Of course I had fought back, until he beat me to near unconsciousness. But through my haze I could still feel the pain. It hurt like hell. I know I screamed, and I know he hit me some more, until I felt nothing but black swirling around me. The last thing I heard was, "I love a passed-out woman. They don't fight back." And when I woke up, sunlight was streaming through the small, dusty window, blood covered the sheets, and Montparnasse was dressing. He smiled at me cruelly.

            "I'm off to see your father. Stay here."

            "You can't make me stay here, you bastard," I muttered. "I thought you were a man, unlike my father. But you're not. You're worse'n he is."

            Montparnasse raised his eyebrows. "Oh, can't I?" He drew a knife, carefully carving a small cut down one side of my face. The he beat me some more and left me on the bed, sobbing, as he redressed and  left the apartment. 

            He was gone for about an hour when I managed to pull myself up. I dressed in my torn, bloody clothes as best I could, for they seemed to have given up, and when I found a pile of patched clothing outside a door, I took the gown, pants, and man's coat. I  limped down to the portress, who directed me to a well. There I washed my face, getting the tears off. But I couldn't stop crying. The tears continued to fall, and I sobbed for another hour or so. I had nothing left. Nothing at all. I could've thrown myself down the well then, and I would've been happier. Then I trudged up to Montparnasse's room. I could deal with anything he handed to me on his battered silver platter. I didn't give a damn if I lived or died. 

            The next few weeks I lived with him. The nights were never as bad as the first, but there were beatings often. But when he was sober, he was kind, apologizing for the previous night, washing my face, kissing my cheeks gently and holding my hand when we went out. It was like he was two-faced, two different creatures. All the time. 

            But one night, drunker and more violent than he had ever been, Montparnasse said something that gave me pause. Through the constant haze of pain he said, "You're a better mistress than your sister ever was. Thank God your father lost that money and didn't go to America."

            I started. A sharp pang of grief shot through my heart. She had been my best friend for ages, the only one who comforted me in my pain. I never thought of her anymore, kept my sorrow buried in the back of my mind. 

            Another thought jolted through my pain-laced brain: No wonder she never got as many 'jobs' with the gang as I did…

            Dully I asked, "Eponine was your mistress?"

A/N: Yes, it is over. Unless I get an overwhelming response to add something else. (Uh-huh. Of course that'll happen….)


End file.
